I was three when my brother Matthew was born.
Life was fine.
Life was easy.
Then my Daddy
Decided
His life wasn't
Easy.
And he took to the bottle.
He drank three bottles every night.
I learned how to multiply by three
By counting how many Bud bottles
Made it to the trash.
I'd read a story to Matthew
Everynight.
As we listened to Mama cry,
And Daddy yell or throw up into the toilet.
The alchohol seemed to be
His new love.
And the six-pack containers his new
Perfect family.
He was never an angry drunk,
Not physically.
He never hit me or Matty or Mama for five years.
Not until after
Matty's accident.
YOU ARE READING
Dead Girls Tell No Lies: A Novel In Poems
PoesíaSo You've Decided To Read My tragic story? Good luck. I dare you to finish it.
